The Great Hall of Thetford, East Anglia
King Guthrum stumbled into his own fortress, his boots leaving muddy, bloody prints on the rush-covered floor. He didn't look like the warlord who had promised to "purify" the North three days ago.
His surviving Jarls followed him, silent and grim. They were missing helmets. They were missing shields. Some were missing the will to live.
"My King," a steward gasped, running up with a goblet of wine. "What happened? Where is the Great Army?"
Guthrum knocked the goblet away. "The army is gone.."
He collapsed onto his throne, staring at the wooden beams of the roof.
"They didn't fight us," Guthrum whispered, his voice trembling. "They stood in a box. They pointed sticks at us. And then... the sky rained iron. And fire. Liquid fire."
The steward looked confused. "But... they are just Northmen, sire. Like us."
